


One for the road.

by HuesOfAColourlessMind



Series: Epiphany [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Depression, Drug Abuse, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Roller Coaster, Eventual Happy Ending, Family Drama, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mentions of Cancer, Overprotective Mycroft, POV First Person, Parenthood, Parentlock, Possible Character Death, Psychological Trauma, Sherlock has a dark past, Sherlock's a good father, Sibling Love, Single Parent Sherlock, because of his dark past, but it takes a lot for him to notice, not sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-11 20:35:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7069048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HuesOfAColourlessMind/pseuds/HuesOfAColourlessMind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock always expected to die young. But he'd never expected to <em>feel</em> dead <em>while</em> being alive, young and a parent.</p><p>Will Sherlock follow logic or his emotions when it comes down to the people close to him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface.

My skin was on fire. My breathing was coming from my mouth in short rapid breaths. I couldn’t make out anything in front of me, everything was just a blur of moving colours and it made my head spin with no control as if I were a toy in a dog’s mouth being thrown upside down and from side to side with no coordination. Every inch of me was as sticky as caramel and my movements were one of a poorly controlled marionette. I stood up but ended face to face with the floor. The sounds I heard made me stumble back again. Screaming horses and riots and shotguns and insults from the ones I thought cared for me. But there was only one sound that stood up and made itself noticed, grabbing me by my throat and forcing me to listen and I had no choice but to do so because it was all in my head. My mind being the only enemy I could not escape from. 

I remember it clearly. The black waters reflecting the light of the moon in the chilly night of a clear skied January. Making its way through the rocks and down the mountains, complying to gravity’s laws. I still feel one or other water drop landing on my face and the ice cold air that governed Switzerland traveling through my skin and setting down in my very bones. But it was its melody that often hunted me at times like these. Water against water. Rock. Mud. Body. Air. Against everything it could touch and all these little sounds were part of a big orchestra performing its most pretentious work in the loudest form it would make my heart pound faster against my chest and cover my ears and the memories of the war I fought would come alive. I couldn’t take it anymore. The memories of what happened there was too much for me to handle, even to this date. And they would come back and hunt me. So I stared at the needle next to me, laying in its Moroccan leather case and I heard the soothing words it whispered to me and I fell for it again. Truth be told, it was my only salvation even when the aftermath was strong and painful and confusing. The only to sooth me back to sweet oblivion, away from this real world. So, I, being the masochist I am, went back to it. 

_Junkie._

_You twat._

_You’re nothing without your fix._

_Fraud._

_You lied to us all._

_Fake, have always been._

_Mother is not proud._

_Father would be truly disappointed._

_Piss off._

It was the only way for me to forget those words. And it was all that mattered at this point. To forget and be forgotten. So I picked it up. The mere sight of the pointed needle was enough to made my mind flutter away in a whirl of laughter, bright colours, music and soft words spoken towards me. As the needle cut through my skin and the clear liquid filled my veins, it fulfill its promises. Soon, I was away in my own head. A place covered in white bricks were I could think of everything and nothing and create my own ideal worlds filled with cases, clues and challenges. Most importantly, everything would be okay. Because here, in this state, I wouldn’t failed. Not like I did in the real world.


	2. Verdict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock confronts the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, dear reader. There are some things you to need to know before reading this story. 
> 
> First things first, this is an AU. Sherlock is in his mid 20s, not yet a consulting detective and I've taken other liberties with his past too. (Ahem, Parent!lock). However, this is not going to be fluffy story. (Though those are my favourites). 
> 
> Second, John will not be a main character in this story (but the second part) and some of the usual characters will not appear until much much later. But they will all jump at some point, so no worries. 
> 
> The Moriarty affair has taken place but its still not finished. I refer a lot to death and graphic descriptions of drug abuse in the first chapters. I'll be warning in advanced. Also graphic description of death, so if it's a trigger for you don't read this story. 
> 
> Yes, I will throw all sorts of bad things to Sherlock in this story buuuuuuut there will be a happy ending. (I thought it was happy). There's always a light at the end of the tunnel, okay. If you decide to stick with the story, I hope you enjoy it and I will be super happy.

A shiver runs down my body. Feels electrified. Air is ice cold against my skin, no doubt covered in goosebumps. Why are my eyes so heavy? Think. You can't open your eyes. Must use other senses, then. What do I hear? There's a beeping sound. Repeats periodically. Soft chattering from afar. Steps. Can barely hear the horns and motors of London's streets.

**More.**

Touch. I feel nothing but my body. Head is thumping, it's abhorrent. It's all my brain can process properly. I internally curse all the useless theories about the creation of universe for making me dependent on a body I have no control over at the moment. Though unlikely, it feels like every bone in my being has been broken. My hand moves across a surface. Not hard, rather soft but itchy at the same time. It wrinkles. Bed sheet, cheap quality. Not my soft Egyptian sheets. What annoys me the most, is not my inability to see but the pain in my chest every time I exhale making the task of deducing where I am harder because of its distraction.

**Concentrate.**

Smell? What can I catch? Strong disinfectant. Also cheap. Antibacterial, no specific odor. Smells clean. Smell of Clorox is still in the air. Room must have been cleaned recently, then.

_Hospital._

What could have possibly have happened? Where was I last time? Can my body give me a clue? No, the headache is not helping. Is there some form of--

What is that smell? I take a deep breath but my lungs are certainly on fire and about to collapse. My exhale comes out in violent coughs. It stings like someone has scratched their nails on my lungs until I bled. Despite this, I manage to scent the cologne. Sour. Manly. I wouldn't mistake it. My eyes open as fast as a lighting cutting through the skies. My numbness is thrown aside by the sudden energy my curiosity sparked, because the two conclusions I reached could only bring trouble to me.

White lights invade my vision and I am forced to blink several times for the tears to go away. After some seconds, I am able to identify the source of light above my head and a quick look around proves my initial deduction correct. And there, sitting on the right side of the hospital bed on a chair, my worst nightmare stares at me.

"Took you while to deduce my presence, little brother." I make a quick scan of his presence. Immaculate suit, breast pocket has a slight rectangular bulge. Notebook. Hair seems arranged at first sight. However a closer look shows it's not the usual way he styles it. Has been passing his hands through his hair. This is a habit he only indulges in under stress. An inspection of his expression (bags under the eyes, discoloration of skin, signs of a barely visible stubble) (Day and an half? Two days?) shows his lack of sleep, stress and fatigue.

"33 hours", he states simply.

 _33 hours._ And it hits me. Cocaine effect lasts from 30 to 50 minutes. Side effects were few compared to usual user. Headache, lung ache, blurry vision, nauseous. Previous occasions I've been in the hospital after dosage were because of my actions _after_ the trips. First time: fell from a staircase. Last time: attacked by other users in the den house after deducing them. What had happened this time to knock me out so long?

"Not this time", Mycroft answers, apparently having read my thoughts. "You took two dosages this time. The first your _solution_ " he says the word with certain disgust. "as you like to name it. The second was not."

It took me a moment to realise, not because I didn't see the connection but because I genuinely believed I would never fall so low.

"Overdose", I whisper carefully.

Mycroft nods. "Let's get down to the core, shall we? I know what your reply will b--"

"Stop, Mycroft", I try to spat the words, but they come out forced from my dry throat. It burns. More coughs. My chest contracts violently and I double over.The next thing I notice, he's handing me a bottle of water. I consider rejecting it, just for the sake of it, but my throat aches for something to sooth the burning feeling currently eating my glans. So I snap it from his hand and drink eagerly. He gives me a pointed look. We stare at each other, the battle has just begun, I realise. It was him who finally gives up on our little game.

"Sherlock", he starts but I am too impatient to listen to whatever speech he has prepared this time.

 _"The list, Sherlock. Will this be your last time? You should stop. Mummy will not be happy. Don't make me sent you to rehab again. What about your son? A total disappointment to father",_ I mock him. "Frankly, Mycroft, I am tired of your babbling. You've made your intentions clear with all possible words of the English language. Let me tell you something, brother: I don't care and don't need all of this. Leave. me. alone."

The silence in the room is only interrupted by the beeping of my fast heartbeat the monitor marks. It irritates and all I want to do is to grab the damn thing and shove it off the window for it to shut up. Mycroft notices my imbalance at the moment. Of course he does, he notices everything. Only he can bring me to such wild state, and I feel embarrassed by it. Mycroft looks at me with his cold like eyes and stone expression.

"Did you get what you deserve?" His words make me shiver from the top of my head to my toes. The near nakedness of the hospital gown isn't helping. However, I try not to show my confusion on my face. I stare hard at him. Or at least I think I do. Mycroft has always been able to see through me. By the tilt of his head, I know I failed to school my expression. "Or is death the only way you'll be satisfied?" The calculated and detached tone of his makes my blood stop running. This is just another facade. And one of the factors everything came down.

"If I die or not, no one could care less. There's no point in living or dying. Death comes for each and all of us." I manage to get out.

"How could you be so sure?"

"Is this how you show your affection to me?", I laugh bitterly. "We both know you are not in this equation, Mycroft as you always point out to me and every one." 

He sighs.

"Think about our Mother."

I snort at his non sense.

"She might care, but her work has always been her priority, Mycroft. Besides, at this moment I am sure not even she has something nice to say about me. Or do you forget the reason we are like this?"

Mycroft is quiet for awhile, frowning deep at what I just said and it makes me want to take him by shoulders and shake him to reality. But he was always so smitten with Mummy. "A change of perspective might help you see this affair from a different angle. What if it were you the one not coping with things appropriately?"

This time I laugh genuinely at his stupidity. "And who else would possibly care of my death? My colleagues? Old acquaintances? You know perfectly well I am not the social type. Never have been. Or the caring, nice and cool man people are so desperate to be surrounded with. Who will come to a sociopath's funeral and give Mummy condolences? No one. You know why? Because only my appearance reflects human."

Mycroft stares at me for a while and I stare back. There's so much unspoken going on and I try to put all my hatred in my eyes to this "human being" next to me. The electricity in the air spikes up and it becomes uncomfortable, even so, I don't look back from the calculated stare of my brother. I hear the door open.

"Mr. Holmes, I see you're awake", she says in an annoying high pitched voice and we both stare at the nurse.

"Hello, Miss Holloway", I read her name on the badge. "I see you've been having fun at work lately." I try to sound charming.

"Nothing too fun I'm afraid."

"Owh, I wouldn't say orgasms aren't fun, Miss Holloway. I wholeheartedly recommend that you go on and have one. I imagine working here must be stressful, might as well find a way to relieve it. That is as long as you both indulge in your little affair at work. Your husband might not be too happy if he were to find out. Remember he has the upper hand in the custody of your son, I wouldn't throw that away by being distracted and carried away."

Her face turns red, her eyes are flames and I brace myself for what is to come. In less than 2 seconds she is in front of me and the following milliseconds her right hand lands on my cheek with enough force I am able to feel the entire surface of her hand against my skin. It burns. She storms out of the room. It takes me a huge amount of self control to not hold the side of my face and try to alleviate the pain or move any muscle of my face to show discomfort in front of Mycroft. I merely turn back and face him. He has a smug smile on his face but says nothing.

"And that is usually how people remember me." I say carefully. 

"Fair point."

"Fire her."

"You will only treat the entire staff the same way. You'll demand me to fire each and all of them. I am in the position of informing you a hospital is nothing without its staff."

"Then they should contract capable people to actually do the work instead of having sex in every empty room. Dopamine and Serotonin are rotting everyone's brain."

"Well, you're not far away, brother." He says in that annoying voice of his and I give him a pointed look. He doesn't seem to notice, (most likely he is simply ignoring me) and goes on. "Last time, you said it would be the last time, Sherlock."

"Funny", I replied. "You genuinely believed it."

I see Mycroft shifting in his chair and sits more straight. I can't help the grin that peers my face when I see him in such discomfort. He folds his hands on his lap and cocks his head to the side.

"Unlike you, I am a man of my word." I sneer at the irony of the statement when his work consists mainly of blackmailing. He says nothing. (It pisses me). "And I intend to see my words through, little brother. You've gone too far without dealing with the consequences." His tone raises all kinds of alarm in my mind. I play, in those seconds, the last time we were in the same position. Several times. Both my hands clench the thin sheet with all the force I have. The beeps of my heart rate increases per second, but I ignore it. The coldness I felt minutes ago dissipated and a warm aura replaced it. My cheeks must be flushing in a furious shade of red right now, I couldn't care less. "Tomorrow morning my nephew will be boarding a plane."

Inhale.

Exhale.

(Ignore the fire, ignore the fire, ignore the fire)

17 possible scenarios ran through my mind. Killing Mycroft right here right now being my preferred one. But it wouldn't help. I remain silent knowing it is the best course of action and eliminate 9 of the possibilities. It is better not to tease Mycroft when he has the upper hand. Something I've come to learn throughout my life and if I am being honest to myself I am not going to let Robert spent his life with Mycroft if I can avoid it. I fight the need to scream at the top of my lungs and lose control. This time, I know my indifferent face is up and there is nothing bringing it down because my walls are steel strong. Mycroft stands up and seems as resolved as I am. His gaze is the one of an eagle, I recognise it. He used it often when I was a kid. His posture screams control and the grip on that goddamn umbrella (tight, knuckles white, index finger slightly twitching), tells me how he is barely holding himself together to not to scream at me for my actions.

There's a knock on the door and a seemingly (most likely. No. Definitely) boring doctor comes in. He greets us, Mycroft puts a fake smile on his face and I completely shut off most of what he's saying after his initial questions on my state to check on me. (I am by no means going to listen to a professional in the field of health that doesn't even care properly for his own. Overweight, heart problems and Diabetes mostly likely type 2 by the pills poking out of his breast pocket). I am aware his gaze is on me and I make out some words (Brought on time. Several risks. Drugs. Coming in and out of consciousness. Supportive care. Medical monitoring. Scans giving certain injuries. Dehydration. Saline solution). Nothing I couldn't have deduced for myself had I care to, or most likely, had Mycroft not interrupted my chain of thought. These are passing thoughts and none of them are as important as to save (yes, save) Robert's life. The doctor leaves with some nonsensical reassuring words. Mycroft gives me one last look before he too, disappears through the door. 

Why is he not leaving anyone behind? He would ensure I stay here and don't escape until Robert is save on a plane and away from my grasp. Trap, most likely. Knowing myself I would normally throw myself into action without any doubt. Mycroft would wait for something like that and would try to prevent it. But no one's guarding the door or has entered my room. This either means he's becoming careless and stupid (hopefully. Though incredibly unlikely) or he has them positioned somewhere else in the building as to give me a chance to escape knowing he would catch me and therefore lose precious time. Clever, very clever. He's always two steps ahead. What exactly is his plan? First of all, where exactly in London, am I currently at?

My mind races fast. Take the hospital information, exits, alternate exits, security guards (easy), Mycroft's men (harder but not impossible),(home or shelter?) home (Robert must be asleep), closest airport, route, time. I don't need the monitor to tell me how dangerously fast my heart is beating. I feel it against my chest, hard and demanding. The blood boiling under my skin. I'm on fire and unstoppable and Mycroft will not take Robert from my side. I didn't realise I move and was out of the room until I almost bump against a nurse. My mind comes back my body and I realise the state I am in. The chill air surrounding me is uncomfortable. Proper clothes becomes my priority. 

To my right I spot the changing rooms and I walk towards them, out of the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of a man in an expensive suit. Mycroft's men are indeed in the hospital. Control pace. Last thing I want is to draw the attention of anyone. This stupid hospital gown is not helping me. The hairs on my body are antennas against the air and the familiar warmth spreading through my body from my chest returns. Once in the room, I waste no time and review the lockers choosing one that might suit my necessities. As deduced, the locker I've picked is of a man. (175 to 180 cm judging by the height the picture of his girlfriend hangs. Clothes are sorted by colours and books in alphabetical order by author. Meaning he is really organised or has either OCD. The former most likely, books are not exactly in the best of shapes. Clothes reveals he often does physical activity, well kept throughout years, trying to pay off his student loans most likely). Wasting no time, I get rid of the hospital gown and put some jeans, t-shirt and an over sized jacket. Dressing as a doctor will catch attention. I fly the room and make my way downstairs, my eyes scan around every time I take a step. Walk confidently, don't try to hide and make no direct eye contact.

My palms sweat and my vision becomes blurry for some seconds, I do not linger on the possibility that it might be something else. There is only one task at hand and I will finish it as soon as possible, so I keep walking. In front of the reception desk, there's another of Mycroft men's scanning the place. If it's even remotely possible, my heart beats even faster. I immediately turn around, he would recognise me. The turn I do however, is my worst decision. Everything seems to spin around with me and I have a hard time placing everything in its place again. My stomach closes itself and all its contents seem to have set free and are all rapidly coming up and burning everything along the way. Must stop. Inhale deeply. Exhale slowly. It helps to calm the nauseous and dizzy feeling. But they are replaced by a sudden pain in my chest. I have no doubt being stabbed in the chest must feel similar. Control breathing. All of this happens in a matter of seconds. I am grateful for it because had it been longer it must have look suspicious. A quick glance over my shoulder reveals the man hasn't seen me. Without a second thought, I continue. And the pain in my chest follows. 

I make my way to the parking lot, when I face the furious cold weather of January my vision goes white. And I can't do nothing to prevent the waves of coughs that follow. Every cough seems to come with a bit of flesh torn from my throat. _Not again,_ I think to myself. _Not now. Not now of all the times._ My chest and throat are dry, the flames having evaporated every liquid or mucus from them. Every breath rips the flesh inside me. It stings. My knees meet a hard surface. My head spins, my vision comes in and out. I manage to make out some things. (Cars, pavement, distant pedestrians). But the one that sticks to me is the image of both my hands completely covered in blood. Someone calls my name. It sounds familiar but I can't place it to the owner. I collapse on the floor. Head smashing against the ground and its all I feel for some moments. There are loud voices around me, hands on my arms, chest, turning me around, on my head and face. I recognise the usual routine of examination. It's a doctor. I'm not sure if he hears me, but I try to communicate either way. "Call my brother. Say him to leave my son with me". I play it over and over and over again in my mind until it becomes my mantra. At this point I am merely an observer of my actions. My only hope is that at least my body obeys this last command of speaking. There are more arms trying to lift me and not a single moment do I stop saying those words in my mind. Not until all is blissfully blank.

~~~~~~~~~~

It's the same process as last time. I feel limp, old and tired. Not all my senses are on and I can't open my eyes. I take all the information I can from my surroundings and deduce where I am. Unsurprisingly, I am still in the hospital. When I open my eyes, surprisingly, Mycroft is nowhere to be seen. A nurse comes. Then a Doctor. This time is not the same one as last time. But one I've already met years ago.

"Mr. Holmes."

"Doctor Trevelyan." 

The doctor comes and approaches my bed, papers in hand. He opens his mouth, but I am tired of being kept here. "I need your assistance, doctor. I want you to return me the favour. This is important and I can't be here."

The doctor sighs. He frowns. Why does he?

"Is it because of your son?" He pauses and shifts his weight from one foot to another. Something must have given me away because he continues. "I called Mycroft and convinced him not to take him away."

The worries I had fly away with those words. My heart jumps and for one moment I am able to block everything else and let the words sink in my mind. A balm to all the injuries I am currently sporting. It doesn't last long because first, Mycroft would want something from me and secondly (and most terrifying) Trevelyan look was even darker. I would go so far and name it mortified.

"What is it?", I demand.

He takes another breath. "You're an intriguing man, Sherlock. Difficult to read at times. I don't want to make this more difficult than necessary so I am going to ask if you want to be presented with the facts or you want to hear it from me."

Trevelyan was a brilliant doctor, that much was I sure of even when fortune wasn't on his side. A handful of people have managed to surprise me over the years. If there was one doctor I was going to trust his judgment was the man currently in front of me. I nod. He proceeds to tell me my current state, reviews the notes once in awhile and the test they've done in order to come to a conclusion. I myself came to my own, but as always when it comes to my physical necessities, I tend to ignore the gravity of the situation. Which is why Trevelyan's last sentence takes me by surprise. He keeps talking, but I no longer listen. And only three words appears in my vision. 

_**Non-small-cell lung cancer.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This just sort of happened while I was sleep deprived from my exams. All mistakes are mine.

**Author's Note:**

> First chapter to come.


End file.
